


Moderation

by jaystrifes



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Kink, Multi, One-Sided Attraction, Or Is It?, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Poly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-07-09 21:56:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19894963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaystrifes/pseuds/jaystrifes
Summary: Aang and Katara are soon to be married. Zuko grapples with the things he's left unsaid, trying and failing to ignore his truest feelings.





	Moderation

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Heartlines](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15805152) by [kuchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuchi/pseuds/kuchi). 



> So this is basically Zuko-centric bonus content for [Heartlines](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1364209) by the incredible [kuchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuchi/pseuds/kuchi), who also beta'd this thing for me! Reading the main fic/the rest of the series isn't required for understanding this fic, but I cannot recommend it enough. Katara's letter comes straight from there, and so do all the emotions that fueled me in writing this.

The sun is sinking scarlet and low on the horizon, fanning its gradient of muted flame across the mellow sky, when Zuko retires to his chambers with a stack of paperwork in tow. 

He’s started keeping Uncle’s hours, he realizes, early to bed and early to rise, though in Zuko’s case, going to bed is typically an excuse for escaping the minutiae of palace life to continue his work in private. He often stays up poring over documents until he quite literally can’t hold his eyes open any longer.

Uncle, on the other hand, is always snoring as soon as his head hits the pillow, and sometimes before. 

Zuko has just returned from his room, where he spent the past hour pouring out his troubles while Uncle poured tea. He kept it strictly to political problems facing the Fire Nation, but Uncle must have known, in that special way of his, that there was something else on Zuko’s mind. 

His parting words of wisdom were, “Nephew, you have grown into a more than capable ruler. It is good that you care so much for your country, but you must also take the time to care for yourself. That way you may lead easily and with less weight on your chest. Do not neglect your need to share your feelings with others.”

It was puzzling, because Zuko had just _finished_ sharing his feelings with Uncle about the social unrest among the nobility and the urgent need in the metallurgical industries to create balance between demilitarization and a healthy economy. Uncle’s advice remains to him an abstract art; it never makes sense when he first tries to take it in, and he’s lucky if he gets it the second time.

For the moment, Zuko sets the thought aside. He arranges himself and his paperwork at his desk and sorts through what he can complete on his own—motions approved by his advisers that only need his seal to make them official, agreements made with foreign trade partners and domestic business-owners, and personal correspondences. He separates them into stacks and regards them with a furrowed brow, trying not to let their height daunt him.

He may as well start with the most manageable; the last pile, containing only a couple of scrolls. Zuko doesn’t have that many close contacts, and his heart jumps when he remembers he’s due for a response from Katara soon. To his luck, he recognizes her neat swirling script across the first scroll he unfurls. He glances at the mountain of busywork and deliberates for only a second.

Obviously, he chooses to answer her letter first for efficiency’s sake, and not because the expanse of time that’s passed since he last saw her has worn an acute ache into him. He misses Aang, too, though they met in Republic City not more than two weeks ago. It was on business, as it always is for two prominent world leaders, but they made time outside of that for the news Katara had secretly shared with Zuko in her previous letter, about the engagement.

Aang’s eyes shone when he announced it, in a rushing, giddy whisper even though they were alone in the apartment reserved for Zuko’s stay. There was the way that he stood on tiptoes above his full height, like he was waiting for the slightest breeze to sweep him up and carry him into the wedded bliss of his future. It made an absolute knot out of Zuko’s insides, but Aang lifting him off his feet in a joyful, tearful hug cut off his breathing enough that he could at least blame his symptoms on something external. 

There were congratulations, of course, and a nice dinner between the two of them. By the next morning’s council meeting, Zuko had almost forgotten all but the sound of Aang’s laughter and the way his whole face was aglow that night, drunk with his happiness (and a little too much sweet wine). And the twinge of disappointment that Katara was attending to other important business, the rain shadow of her absence in the occasional gap in conversation, even as Zuko basked in the warmth of having Aang’s full attention. 

They had spent a good amount of time talking about her latest work in the Water Tribes, coordinating a program for all their benders to learn a basic healing skillset, regardless of their primary roles at home. Katara’s dedication is unparalleled, and Aang with his chest so puffed out he might burst with pride on her behalf made for an endearing sight, but it nagged at Zuko, that she couldn’t be there to celebrate her own engagement.

He supposes it only seemed that way from his perspective—she and Aang have probably been doing plenty of celebrating on their own time, with other family and friends, and it shouldn’t bother him that he can’t share in every part of the process.

In retrospect, he worries about what the arrangement in Republic City might foreshadow for their friendship. He enjoys spending time with either Katara or Aang alone, but in some way it always feels incomplete without the two of them together at his side. It’s become increasingly rare for their schedules to line up so that they can all see one another, and Zuko imagines it will only be more of a challenge in the near future. Things like that change when people get married, don’t they? Katara and Aang will be their own unit, whole, and he can’t expect them to want to be apart from each other in their precious free time just to catch up with him.

There’s no reason he should feel left out, when he’s never had a place in this area of their private lives to begin with. It’s wrong of him, not to mention absurd, to think otherwise. For the moment, he’d rather not think about their impending union at all. He tells himself he just needs time to process it.

Carefully, he smooths out the scroll on his desk and begins to read by candlelight.

_Dear Zuko,_

_Did you get the invite!? It looks pretty fancy, doesn't it? We wanted to ask you if you could be a witness at the wedding. Sokka's going to be one of course, and Aang wants Bumi, but we kind of both picked you first so it would mean so much! Please say you'll be able to make it! I know how busy you are right now, but it just wouldn't feel right without you. We won't fix any dates until you reply._

_Love,_

_Katara_

Zuko resists the urge to drop his forehead down on the table, leaning it against one hand and massaging at his temple instead. It appears that reminders of Aang and Katara’s wedding are inescapable. The seed of discomfort only grows the more he tries to uproot it, sprouts and blooms in the cavity of his chest, a flower born of flame. He doesn’t dare give it a name.

His two closest friends are to be married and they make each other happier than anything else in the world, so why can’t he be happy knowing that? He _is_ happy. He wants this for them. Nothing about this should leave him feeling so unsatisfied. He’s _not_ unsatisfied.

Zuko inhales deeply, ignoring the stinging at the backs of his eyes as he skims the letter again. His breath sticks in his throat with the reminder that they picked him first. They’re waiting to fix the date, for _him_. For a moment, he can almost blame the twisted-up feeling inside him entirely on the endless, undeserved kindness they show him, that he still isn’t accustomed to, that sometimes threatens to overwhelm him like a high tide dragging him out to sea.

There’s that much, and then there’s more.

But he can’t afford to dwell on the more. “In love, what is there is often all there is,” his mother had told him once, her eyes heavy with a kind of regret as she watched Ozai ignore Azula tugging on his robes to get him to play with her. Unlike his little sister, Zuko was old enough to know better by then, though he didn’t know what his mother had been trying to teach him until much later.

Aang and Katara love him. They want him to be part of their wedding, but they’re marrying each other. They love each other. Wanting for more is—

Zuko shuts out the thought, the treacherous thunder of his heartbeat in his ears, and makes himself unroll the other scroll, the invite, to find the ornate sprawl of their titles across the sheet, _Avatar Aang_ etched in gold and _Katara of the Southern Water Tribe_ sparkling in silver. To think that so heavy and official an announcement would weigh so little in his hands.

He sets it aside and picks up the letter to read through and really soak it in, as he always does with Katara’s words, but he can’t seem to keep his focus. There’s only one line he keeps coming back to, over and over, even though he knows it’s wishful thinking to hope she might mean it in that way.

_...it just wouldn’t feel right without you._

Zuko drags his palms against his face and up into the hair that hangs over his forehead, then blinks the bleariness out of his eyes and gets to work. He has his own letter to write.

*

Many crumpled pieces of parchment later, Zuko is no closer to the heartfelt message he wants to send. He just can’t get the tone right no matter how hard he tries, can’t make it read as sincere in his own voice. The numerous failed drafts are too stiffly formal or too artificially enthusiastic or too desperately honest, and none of them will do.

_Dear Katara,_

_I would be honored to be a witness at the wedding. My schedule is open later in the month of—_

_Dear Katara,_

_I can’t wait to celebrate at your wedding! You and Aang have been the world’s favorite power couple for long enough, it’s about time—_

_Dear Katara,_

_I don’t know how to say this, but I need to say it now, before it’s too late. I love—_

Zuko scrunches up the latest attempt and ignites it, then sweeps the ashes into the bin beneath his desk. Heat lingers in the heels of his hands when he turns his palms up. He digs his nails into them until the crescent-shaped divots ache enough to break his blank haze of frustration. He wants to light something more important on fire, but he doesn’t have the patience for sparring practice tonight.

Instead, he steps out onto the balcony to clear his head. It only reminds him of Aang and Katara, as most everything inevitably does—warm, fresh air and the view of the sea from afar stir up the things he’s tried to bury, thoughts of where they are, what they’re doing, will he see them again before the wedding?

Trying to finish his response has taken up the better part of an hour. He’s irritated with himself most of all, with his mind overthinking itself in circles when he needs to face this invitation head-on. It’s not like it will miraculously go away, and they would be so disappointed if he turned them down, and he’s a horrible, awful friend for even considering it.

With effort, he peels his tense fingers from their grip on the balcony railing, clings to the breathing exercises Uncle taught him until his anger fades to a low simmer. If he shifts his perspective just a little bit, his surroundings become a comfort. It would be a nice evening to share with them, to walk along the sand at dusk and let the tide wash over his feet and enjoy the veil of peace that settles over him when he’s in their company.

More than anything, Zuko just wants a break from it all, wants to put the world on pause so he can have just a moment alone with Aang and Katara, in person. He has to tell them somehow.

Honesty will ruin him, but he can’t pretend to be blind to his feelings forever, or keep them a secret from the two people he trusts most. On the other hand, it would be selfish to force that sort of confession on them. Especially _now_ , when they’re about to make a commitment to one another for the rest of their lives. What if he wrecks their marriage before it’s even begun?

It wouldn’t be fair to any one of them. It isn’t fair how badly he wants to hold their hands, either.

Time to lay off with the melodrama already. Zuko shakes his head and loosens up his sore wrists on his way back to the desk. He’s going to finish writing this letter if it kills him.

He forces out all other thoughts and wills himself to concentrate on just this. Accepting the invitation. The one thing he knows for sure is that he does want to be there on that day, to see them and celebrate them, inner turmoil or no.

Holding onto that, Zuko dips the brush in the ink and lets the words flow. This time, he gets it mostly right. He sets aside the first draft to go off of, editing only a few words so that the final copy is as perfect as it can be.

Once the ink has dried, he holds the parchment in front of him and reads over it one more time.

_Dear Katara,_

_I did get the invitation, and it does look very fancy. I’m impressed! I didn’t think your titles could possibly seem more illustrious, but they look like they’d fit right in with the palace treasures. Of course I’ll be able to make it to your wedding, and I’d be honored to serve as a witness. I’m flattered you both picked me first, but you’d better not let your brother catch wind of that. You’ll never hear the end of it._

_Slights against Sokka aside, you and Aang are beyond important to me. I wouldn’t miss this for the world._

_Love,_

_Zuko_

He nods to himself, rolls up the parchment, and adds his seal, leaving it there to be sent off the following morning.

Finally, it’s done.

Zuko pushes back his chair so he won’t look at the letter and second-guess his words another time. If he agonizes over it for any longer, he might actually drive himself up the wall by morning. There are still two other, taller stacks of important papers to attend to, but his mind feels full of static. He can almost hear Uncle’s voice saying that his habits are catching up to him.

It’s not just the exhaustion, though; other distracting thoughts won’t stop popping up like pesky fire ferrets. Staying up to finish his work feels useless, at this point. Zuko snuffs out the lamp and finds his bed in the dark, shedding his robes along the way and hoping for a merciful descent into sleep to quiet his mind soon.

As soon as he closes his eyes, though, it’s like he’s wide awake. Every fanciful idea plays out far too vividly on the backs of his eyelids.

He wonders how Aang and Katara will dress for the big day. Admittedly, he’s no expert on either of their nations’ wedding traditions, but he imagines they’ll be decked out in their respective colors, shades of cool blue for Katara and warm oranges for Aang, complementary as can be. More elegant than their usual robes, something flowing and a little too grandiose. They are the Avatar and the greatest waterbending Master alive, after all. They’ll look important, and serious, and not at all like themselves, until one of them gets emotional about the whole thing and breaks into an irrepressible smile.

They’ll gaze at each other the way they always have. The way Zuko sometimes gazes at them, together or apart, when they aren’t watching him. He will steal his selfish glances at their radiance as they look into each other’s eyes and give their vows; just the two of them in their moment. Perfect, all on their own.

Zuko rolls over to press his face into the cool silk of the pillow, muffling a halfhearted yell at his own weakness. He should be better than this. He should be doing something productive, like signing papers, or even sleeping, anything befitting the way a Fire Lord should maintain himself for the good of his nation. Anything besides this stupid, hopeless pining for the two people in the world he cannot have.

His heart and head traitorously wander back to them yet again, with a new question. Where will they go for their honeymoon? Katara hasn’t mentioned anything about it in her letters, but he doesn’t think it’s because she would be too embarrassed to bring it up. She’s hardly ever anything less than forward and forthcoming with him. Maybe they haven’t actually planned for a location yet.

Maybe Zuko could invite them to the royal palace.

He sits bolt upright with his hands buried in his hair, threatening to pull out a chunk of it. He’s well-aware that he’s had some bad ideas before, but this one takes the cake. Agni, he might be losing his mind. 

If they come here, they will spend their nights in each other’s company in the dignitaries’ guest room next door to his own bedchambers. If Zuko has to see them in the morning for breakfast with those sleepy-happy, sneaky grins of too little rest on account of too much post-marital fun, he _will_ lose his mind.

Admittedly, he doesn’t know that they’ll be like that. He doesn’t know the details of their intimate life as it is. He definitely hasn’t imagined any of it in the privacy of the night like this.

If he had ever imagined it, hypothetically, he might have imagined that they’ve been familiar in a physical sense long before they were even engaged. They’re not the most staunch traditionalists he knows, and there’s something in the ease with which they touch one another, even in the most innocent of ways.

Zuko had caught them making less innocent eyes across a campfire more than once, even in those intervening years after the war. Back when they still had time for campfires, that is, before everyone fully took up the mantle of leadership of the nations as adults.

He stepped into his role early, given no choice, but back then he found time to slip away on two-day adventures with the rest of the group as often as he could. It was worth it for a lot of laughter and a little danger and a few new things that made his stomach flip. How Aang had shot up in height and grown into his muscles over the years and how well he wore that cocky grin when he bested Zuko in a firebending duel. How Katara walked with a new, definite confidence in the sway of her hips and how the water glistened on her bare shoulders when she laughingly invited him into the pool with everyone if he lingered behind.

Zuko’s face feels hotter than the sun at its zenith. He hides behind his hands by instinct, even though there’s no one else in the room to witness his embarrassment. Sure, maybe he finds them both unbearably attractive, and has for years now, but shouldn’t he be past this? It’s not like he’s a _teenager_ anymore, fumbling around with Mai.

Something about it is just different, when he thinks of Aang and Katara, in the rare event that he lets himself get this far. Different from the picture of inviting anyone else who’s ever caught his eye to share his bed. They affect him so easily and so strongly, he thinks he may actually combust if he ever has to admit it to them.

Willing himself to stop hanging onto frivolous notions like that and just sleep, he flops back against the pillows again and squeezes his eyes shut. It’s no use, not when he’s so achingly hard over _nothing_. His restless legs twist the sheets down off of him until they’re caught on one ankle. The breeze flowing in from the half-open balcony door freely bathes his body, makes every small hair prickle against his will, but the heat trapped beneath his skin doesn’t retreat from it.

Tossing and turning lands Zuko on his front again. The relief of friction draws a whimper from him, nearly inaudible, felt in the back of his throat more than uttered aloud. 

It’s easy to invent sensation out of nothing on muggy summer nights like this. The salt of his sweat is the salt of the ocean is the salt of Katara’s sweat, sticking to the dip between her collarbones in the sun, sticking to the bends of her strong thighs in the slant of moonlight pooling on his bed, sticking to his lips so much he finds himself licking them without meaning to. The humid-warm air is Aang’s hands ghosting down his sides, breath drifting across the back of his neck, teasing the faintest pressure all the way down his spine with the illusion of weight above him, behind him.

As much as Zuko tries to keep his imagination in check, he’s fighting a losing battle. He grinds against the sheets, a slight, irregular shimmy of his hips until he caves and shifts up onto his knees to reach a hand beneath him.

At the very first graze of his palm against his cock, every muscle jumps. It’s been _so_ long, and he knows it, but at least it’s not an easily forgotten skill. It just takes a minute to settle back into the rhythm, calm his nerves enough to enjoy it.

He knows he shouldn’t be thinking of them like this, shouldn’t be getting off to their likenesses in his mind. It’s wrong, they’re his closest friends and they’re getting _married_ and there isn’t any room for him there and he knows it. He’s as doomed as he is desperate. 

_But just let me have tonight_ , he pleads, as if there is anyone whose permission he can ask. _Tonight, and never again._ He will learn not to want them, but for right now, he wants everything, he wants it so terrifyingly much.

He wants to know the way Aang kisses, the face Katara makes when she’s lost in pleasure. He wants to learn their bodies better than he knows his own, the taste of them and every imperfection, every beauty mark and every scar. Zuko wants to give himself to them completely, wants them to take every part of him because they’re the only ones he trusts with all of it.

On his own, he isn’t enough. He aches so much to be touched that his whole body quivers, grits his teeth as he keeps up the firm, frustratingly unhelpful pace. When he can’t stand it any longer, he stops long enough to dive for the lowest drawer in the nightstand and procure a little-used vial of oil.

Zuko slicks up his fingers with it before he sets the bottle aside and braces himself on one hand, blinking through a moment of contemplation. Nothing’s changed, he should still be trying to fall asleep instead of fooling around with all this, but if he’s going to fool around he might as well go all the way through with it. Do nothing by half measures, because he can guarantee he wouldn’t if he had them here with him.

He reaches back along the curve of his ass and rubs his fingertips lower, digs his teeth into his bottom lip as he works one digit in past the tight ring of muscle. The slow-burning stretch of intrusion feels almost new, even though it isn’t.

Idly, he wonders if Aang’s ever done this, ever even thought to explore himself this way when he’s almost always had easier means of finding pleasure, through Katara. Then again, it’s possible she’s suggested it to him. Zuko can imagine her coaxing Aang into it, making him fall apart on her fingers and stroking him through it, showing him just how good it can be to be on the receiving end.

Zuko can imagine Katara doing this to him _for_ Aang, preparing him to take Aang’s cock, and just the thought of that makes him curse softly and spread his knees wider apart.

He’s ready for more, he’s been ready, so he draws all the way out and presses in again with two at once, lets the motion rock him forward. When the pads of his fingers hone in on that delicate spot, it punches a moan out of Zuko, too loud, too good. He can’t think of anything but chasing the electric-perfect sensation that sends a full shiver up his spine. He wonders if they would tease him for it, if they would have him with weakness and all, open him up and take him apart just the way he needs.

The hand supporting him shakes and gives out, leaving him propped up on his elbow. He tucks his face into it and closes teeth around skin to muffle any helpless, vulnerable noises that escape him. Curling his forearm beneath the pillow, he twists his fingers into its softness just to have something to hold onto as he rolls his hips back over and over, ignoring the burn of protest in his lungs. Zuko barely cares that he’s practically smothering himself, revels in the light-headedness that comes with it.

There would be no better reason to test his limits than being trapped between Katara’s legs. He wants to be overwhelmed with her taste and her scent and every tremor of her body beneath his mouth. He thinks he could drown in her without objection, and if he even tries to surface, she could prevent him, keep him there where she wants him and take control. Katara is good at control.

Raking through his hair, he imagines it’s her hand instead, tugs sharply until he feels the ache. He can’t help but beg wordlessly for more, for the scrape of her nails as she writhes and clenches and finds release on his tongue. He wants to stay there in that place in his mind forever, curling his toes from the feeling of being filled by Aang’s cock, losing himself in Katara’s wet heat.

Gasping, Zuko jerks his head up to breathe, only because he thinks he might be on the verge of passing out and he can’t do that until he comes. He’s right on the edge, just waiting for a tiny, missing piece to fall into place. He stretches his fingers in up to the knuckles and lets out a quiet, drawn-out keen of frustration.

Unable to take it anymore, he wiggles his arm free of the pillow and slides it under himself. The tingle of numbness in his muscles goes ignored for the sake of focusing instead on the sting of his nails dragging down the length of his chest. In the faint, silvery light, he can make out the swelling red lines left behind. A little pain is good, grounding, and if Zuko likes more than a little, well, nobody has to know about that. He never brought it up with Mai, or with any one-time fling; he doesn’t know what anyone would think, especially not Katara or Aang.

Here, alone, he can imagine they wouldn’t react with worry or pity, just acceptance, safe indulgence. Katara would understand him in that deeply intimate way she has always understood him. She’d know exactly what he’s looking for, whether it’s the raw rub of a rope burn or the quick bite of a blade.

He’s not sure she could bring herself to hurt him in any extreme way, but then, she wouldn’t need any sort of weapon, would she? Whips and restraints can be made from water, and she’s the best waterbender there is. Aang, too, Aang could take his breath away so easily, steal the air right from his lungs. He would whisper to him about balance to be found in everything and grip Zuko’s hips just hard enough to bruise, a strong hand splayed across his bared throat and teeth digging into his shoulder.

When he finally gets a hand on his cock again, his mind whites out. The buildup was too much, and now that he’s reached the very edge of the cliff there’s nowhere to go but off. His undoing isn’t totally the idea of them having him pinned and controlled and punished, but the idea of what might come after. Aang kissing every dark butterfly of a bitemark left on his skin, Katara’s healing hands soothing away every lasting pain like magic, forgivingly soft touches and praise and love, love, _I love you_ —

He finally surrenders with a shudder and a groan, every part of him submerging in the sticky-warm wave of pleasure, and the name that slips past his lips is some amalgam of theirs.

For a time, Zuko is aware only of the blood rushing in his ears and the heavy thump of his heartbeat, his whole body taut. His vision fades in from the edges, gradually. Once he can finally hear the sound of his breathing again, it’s ragged and too rough against the smooth quiet of the room. He extracts himself from the aching position and sinks carefully into the bed.

Lying there with a hand stretched to either side of him, he briefly, dangerously, lets himself imagine what it would be like to bask in the afterglow with Aang and Katara. The luxury of being able to hold them, enjoy the close heat of their skin pressed against his even in the humidity. He wants to share the dark with no one else but them and their smiling secrets, wants to shower them in grateful affection, wants to kiss them like it’s his right.

But it isn’t. So Zuko makes himself sit up in bed, alone, until his head stops spinning enough for him to go clean up. After making sure the vial of oil is stowed away where it belongs, he shuffles to the adjoining bathroom. He feels a little better once he splashes cold water on his face and dampens a couple of washcloths to clean up with, but he knows the beginning of a headache when he feels it.

Drifting out to the balcony again, he takes in the night air and stares out at the glimmering black waters of the bay, exhausted and vaguely sick in his stomach. He wants to wake Uncle. He needs to ask how he’s supposed to share his feelings with the two people most important to him in the world, a pair he couldn’t bear to come between.

He doesn’t know where to go from here. If he confesses to them and they push him away, he loses; if he confesses to them and they have a mutual confession to make, he gains all the more to lose. Zuko wants too much, more than he could ask for, and more than they would ever want to give. He can’t stand to think of coming so close to happiness, only for it to slip through his fingers when they change their minds about him, or their responsibilities and status get in the way, or _his_ responsibilities and status get in the way.

It’s selfishly desperate and stupid, but he wishes they were here. Everything would be okay if he could just wake up in the morning to an unexpected visit: Katara sitting at his desk, reading his letter with a smile on her face, and Aang floating on the balcony in meditation, opening one eye just a crack to wink at him. They would all eat breakfast together, sort out the world’s problems in the library and be done by lunch. They’d walk the gardens, find a spot in the shade for a picnic of cool, ripe fruit, and have time, plenty of time to themselves.

A nice fantasy, but nothing more than that.

In reality, his morning tomorrow will consist of nothing more than a meeting with another marriage prospect of his own. Uncle has been more than considerate of Zuko’s desire to marry for love, but there are always these arrangements, just to encourage him in the direction his people insist upon. The Fire Nation will need an heir.

The noblewomen he meets are nice enough, refined and regal enough to gain the public’s approval. Their tea-pouring etiquette generally ends up impressing Uncle more than Zuko, but he tries to be polite and conceal his boredom. The most interesting match he’s met so far was a powerful, snappy firebender who reminded him a little too much of Azula. That would never work out, obviously. 

His reasons for turning down the others have varied, but almost always the core of the rejections was simply that very few people can compare to the two who already, unknowingly, hold his heart.

Zuko knows his duties, but he also knows himself. He’ll love Katara and Aang for as long as he lives, even if it damns him to a lonely court.

At some point, he’s dropped his head down on his arms, crossed over the railing. When he shakes himself out of his half-sleep he realizes his eyelashes are damp, his face slippery where he scrubs the side of his hand against it.

The moon shines full above him, and standing in its light he feels almost as if he is waiting for judgment, but can’t quite bring himself to care. “Sokka’s first girlfriend, if you’re out there,” he starts to say, granting himself a pity chuckle for what a nonsensical idea it is, “you were a princess, weren’t you? You know how it is, going against centuries of tradition for love. Any tips?”

Her silence stretches on, unsurprisingly. Spirits wouldn’t be spirits if they were universally available and helpful. Still, something about the pale moonlight seems softer around the edges of his shadow, and if she’s watching him, it’s not without compassion. Zuko wants someone, anyone, to tell him the right thing to do, but it seems that in this matter, he’s on his own.

“…I thought so. Thanks anyways, Yue.”

He shuts the balcony door behind him and pads across the room to collapse into bed, barely mustering the energy to roll to the far side and curl in on himself. This time, he’s finally, _finally_ able to sink into darkness behind closed eyes. If he dreams, it’s of the moon spirit presiding over a wedding for three, Aang’s dazzling smile and Katara’s hair unbound and each of their hands joined with his. Zuko will make sure to forget it before he wakes.

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far and haven't read Heartlines, go read it!! Let your soul be converted to the god-tier ship that is zutaraang and come yell with [me](https://jaystrifes.tumblr.com/) and [kuchi](https://kuchee.tumblr.com/) about it, or follow the [zutaraang blog](https://zutaraangtastic.tumblr.com/)!


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